


contingent negative variation

by andymcnope



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/F, Mild sexual situations, Spoilers for 5x04, Suicide, dissociation themes cw, fake suicide, well mild for them at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6886963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andymcnope/pseuds/andymcnope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>// An event related potential is the continuous measure between a stimulus and the neuroresponse; the contingent negative variation is the time between the warning stimulus and the imperative stimulus. //</p><p>Altogether, Sameen Shaw survives over 7,000 deaths at the hands of Samaritan.</p><p>[Spoilers for 6,741 and Sotto Voce]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i can't stand to be so dead behind the eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chromestorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromestorm/gifts).



> Please forgive the pseudo-science (cramming 3 hours of neuroscience research papers and wikipedia articles does not an expect make).
> 
> Also, the weird programming language formatting is intentional but might be painful on the eyes.
> 
> Thanks to chromestorm, lastless and kristen for the constant encouragement, support and suggestions.

 

        // “What is the point of using the virtual reality simulation? Surely there are… _proven_  methods we can use," Lambert points out.

 

"Antiquated torture won't work on Ms. Shaw. We have already tried that with poor results," Greer replies. //  

 

}

 

* * *

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim1.log **

 

 

She is tired, so tired. The sunken eyes look that much worse under the bright fluorescent lighting, her skin seems to have an unnatural color in contrast with the bland walls of the hospital room.

 

The bandage itches and is soaked with blood. She's not sure the last time she showered or much time has passed between the stock exchange and now. She has incomplete memories of the time in between, enough to know there was a time in between, but not enough to know where she is or how she got there.

 

The haze is not just the anesthetic wearing off, it's something else, a feeling that _something_   does not belong.

 

She breaks the mirror.

 

 

**

 

 

She swims and swims and swims but she never makes it to the shore on the other side.

 

 

**

 

{

        

        // “Drowning, yikes," Stewart says. "Definitely gonna need a way off the island next time."

 

"Why isn't she responding to the stimuli?" Lambert asks.

 

"She is, but we can only control so much. This is as close to ‘whole brain emulation’ as we can get, but emphasis on close. Not an Asimov fan?" He asks Lambert who looks confused and possibly mad, like always. "Think of it as a mind upload. The goal of WBE is to measure the brain's responses so a computer can emulate the neuroresponses of the subject being studied, to learn how their brain works. But every neuron is like a computer in itself, so measuring every single one is still not possible, not even with Samaritan's super-processing ability.”

 

“You are surely joking,” Lambert points out.  

 

"Theoretically, it is believe that technology will be available in a few decades, but for now the best we can do is monitor her event-related potential, e.g. we introduce a set of variables with each session, and measure the neurofeedback, and then we make slight tweaks each time, different variables, etc.”

 

“Mind control? I believe we’ve already studied that in Maple.”

 

“Not mind control, no. If we could control her mind, we would just demand the Machine’s location. This is more power of suggestion meets the Matrix. Her responses can vary even within the same combination of factors. And there’s also the negative variation, which means she still has free will, or free- _won't_ in this case, and the ability to resist the suggestion we provide. So we are in control at the beginning, with the world creation, and we can trigger the ERPs as a sequence of lights, images, sounds, and even smells, but ultimately she runs the show from there."

 

Greer smirks. “Using a computer model loaded with all that we know of the Machine’s associates. Samaritan will calculate new scenarios based on Ms. Shaw's responses, and generate a real time reproduction. We will know exactly where The Machine is, because she will show it to us.” //  

 

}

 

* * *

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim12.log **

 

 

She hears the familiar sound of a helicopter motor above.

 

The path to the roof is filled with agents but she disposes of each one despite her heavy limbs and the pounding headache.

 

The helicopter has no pilot, so she's able to jump inside and take off; it's been years since she flown one but it's like riding a bike - if a bike had two rotors that required absolute precision to fly and not… crash.

 

She sees Greer's face staring at her from the rooftop. The rational side of her knows he's replaceable, but the bandage isn't waterproof and her sweat stings against the freshly sutured skin.

 

The white flashes go off like a strobe light at a bad rave, and she slumps forward.

 

She comes to too late, the helicopter dropping towards the ground, and she makes sure to aim for the old man; the last thought to cross her mind is that she hopes this blow to Samaritan’s team buys the team enough time to fight back.

 

 

**

 

 

{

 

        // “Okay, no helicopter either."

 

"Isn't there a faster way?" Lambert asks.

 

“I read her chart and it mentioned an Axis II Disorder, which could account for her reduced response compared to other subjects. So far she's mostly responded to you and Mr. Greer."

 

"I'm honored," Lambert replies.

 

"Don't be, she just went full kamikaze on you. Again.” //

 

}

 

 

* * *

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim55.log **

 

 

"Where to?" The cabbie asks.

 

"Just drive around," she orders him in Farsi.

 

"Oh, you speak Farsi?"

 

She nods and sees her own reflection against the plexiglass, haunted and tired eyes.

 

They drive for miles of New York City's finest traffic jams, and she keeps an eye on every street corner and every camera they pass.

 

"Are you from here?" He asks again after several minutes.

 

She shakes her head.

 

"Visiting some friends," she lies, even though she's been gone for... she can't remember how long.

 

"Where are your friends?" The cabbie asks her.

 

"They're..." She meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. The flashes start and she grabs at the bandage behind her ear in agony, but it only makes it worse.

 

She remembers those eyes, but she doesn't remember how.

 

_ Samaritan. He must be a Samaritan operative. _

 

There's a gun in her hand that wasn’t there before, and she doesn't even flinch when the shot rings up. The cab accelerates and she has no way to pull the man's foot off the pedal.

 

The entire car erupts in flame when they t-bone a van.

 

 

**

 

 

{

 

        //  “Let’s not do that again, shall we?" Greer asks.

 

"We don't-- we will work on that," Stewart sputters out. "No more stimuli in moving vehicles, got it.” //  

 

}

 

 

* * *

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim91.log **

 

 

“Root!” Shaw screams as Root collapses on the ground.

 

The blinding images flash once again, and she almost throws up from the pain. Or maybe—

 

Shaw shoots before she can think. No busted kneecap for this Samaritan operative; one shot, right between the eyes.

 

The blood pools around Root, and she sees John and Fusco carrying Greer out; there’s a plan, to regroup and recover, but one look at Root’s torso and Shaw knows there won’t be any recovery.

 

Rushing combat boots sound against the concrete floors, closer and closer, until she looks up to see twenty, maybe twenty five agents, weapons drawn, ready to chase after Fusco and Reese.

 

The SEMTEX was placed in all of the right spots; she’d made sure of it.

 

 She barely hears the click of the detonator.

 

 

**

 

 

{

 

        // “Struck a nerve, haven’t we?” Lambert gloats.

 

“Well, technically more than one, the whole brain activity just spiked when Ms. Groves was shot, more than we’ve seen so far—“ Stewart stops himself. “Oh, you mean figuratively.”

 

“Nothing Samaritan did not know and plan for already,” Greer adds smugly. //

 

}

 

 

* * *

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim325.log **

 

 

She grabs her head in pain, dropping to her knees against the linoleum floor of the pharmacy. The flashes show her images of Reese behind the glass at Samaritan’s facility, surveillance pictures of him side by side with Lambert and Grice’s old partner.

 

_ Asset #2873 _

 

Reese broke; the old man hadn’t lied. It feels like the final blow.

 

“Come on, Shaw. Give us the location of Finch and the Machine before your trio becomes a duo,” the blonde woman orders.

 

Shaw frowns. “You haven’t told them?” she asks the shell of the man she once worked with.

 

“Samaritan… _recruited_  me two weeks before they relocated the Machine.”

 

“So now you’re trying to kill them?” Shaw demands in disbelief.

 

John shrugs. “If it comes to that, yeah. But our priority is destroying the ASI.”

 

She’s standing in the rubble of the Samaritan facility, flanked by Samaritan operatives.

 

Behind Reese is what she’s looking for. “Brainwash or no brainwash, you would never let Harold die.”

 

Reese isn’t Reese. She launches forward, impaling the stranger on a piece of rebar; she doesn’t even notice when it goes through her chest.

 

 

**

 

{

 

        // “We are still not getting enough feedback data on Mr. Reese or Mr, Finch. Her brain activity doesn’t spike up until—“ Stewart crosses his throat with his finger. “You know?”

 

“She cares about them, of that much we are sure,” Greer points out.

 

Steward nods. “The brain mapping and everything else, the way it works is by measuring the brainwave, which much like a heart goes up and down, but her brain waves just levels off. There is activity, just not helpful for calibration. Even her response to the simulated death or betrayal of most of her associates is minimal compared to… well, a normal subject. ”

 

“Can’t we amplify the feedback we do get?” Lambert inquires.

 

“We can try, but it’d be like blowing up a one megabyte picture into a mural; data will be degraded, which can backfire if she continues resisting the reality of the simulations. They may appear unnatural, and she may grow… weary of their presence.”

 

“Get it done,” Greer orders. //

 

}

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim1154.log **

 

“We have to stop running, Shaw!” Root yells, Reese’s blood is all over her but the black of her clothes hides the stains. “Sameen!”

 

“We can’t,” Shaw replies as she pulls Root into a dark alley, hoping they did lose the Samaritan operatives two blocks back. “We can’t stop.”

 

“Why?” Root questions. “What’s the point? Finch is dead, Reese is dead. Let’s cut our losses and run.”

 

Shaw glances at Root’s face in the shadows. “What are you saying, Root?”

 

“They only want us because of the Machine. We kill it and they’ll let us live,” she says, and her tone is desperate and somewhat manic. It reminds Shaw of the empty facility, of finding Root broken. She’d had no sympathy for the woman then.

 

“Her,” Shaw argues. “You never called— you wouldn’t give up on Her.”

 

“Things change,” Root whispers as she touches Shaw’s face. “I won’t lose you again.”

 

The kiss is soft, softer than Shaw’s ever been kissed and she gives in until she remembers she doesn’t _like_  being kissed softly. “No!” She shouts as she pushes Root away. “This isn’t you. The Root I know would never give up on the Machine, or run.”

 

“Come on, Sameen. We could be free, run all over the world. Have fun.”

 

The headache and the flashes hit, hard, until she collapses on the floor, her gun in her hand. She doesn’t even flinch when the shot rings out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim1332.log **

 

 

{

 

        // “Simulation 1332 and she’s shot everyone except for Ms. Groves, sir,” Stewart adds as the program reboots. “Well… and the dog.” //

 

}

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim1948.log  **

 

The water is so clear she can see Root’s black toenail polish through it.

 

“Told you I knew the perfect place,” Root says. “No phones, no pesky computers.”

 

There are fading bruises and cuts all over her exposed flesh, and Shaw can’t remember which ones she put there and which ones she didn’t. It doesn’t matter though, it’s just the two of them in the entire beach.

 

And Bear, waiting for them ashore, biting at the waves that come in.

 

Root falls backwards, until she’s floating, her hair spreading around her head. A soft wave comes and Root’s body lifts and drops with it effortlessly.

 

“Don’t float away,” Shaw warns as she reaches for Root’s outstretched hand, anchoring her.

 

 

**

 

 

{

 

        //  “She’s dreaming inside the simulation; that’s a first,” Stewart points out. “Kinda wild, like _Inception_ kind of wild.” When the others don’t react, he adds, “You know, the movie? By that dude, Christopher Nol… You know what? It doesn’t matter.“

 

Greer’s face is anything but amused.

 

“Yikes, tough crowd. No pop culture trivia, got it.” //  

 

}

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim2248.log **

 

 

“You were such a great agent, Shaw— may I call you Sameen?” Control asks as she adjusts the straps around Shaw’s hands tighter and tighter until she can feel them cut off her circulation. “I know we taught you everything you needed to know to withstand this,” Control adds. “…but you were never tortured by me.”

 

“Like you broke Root?“ Shaw laughs bitterly. “Oh wait, you didn’t. Pretty sure she gave you a 1-star review on Yelp.”

 

Control smirks. “You are not Ms. Groves.”

 

“No, but I could break her - god knows I’ve had plenty of practice - which makes me better at this than you,” Shaw spits out as she loses feeling on her appendages.

 

“Cute,” Control says before she brings a soaked rag and a hospital-grade jug of water.

 

 

**

 

She kills Control with one of the straps that came off her wrist, but another Samaritan agent takes over.

 

Shaw knows what’s coming, but she never gives them what they’re asking for, not even days later when she lets the water finally fill her lungs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim2794.log **

 

{

 

        //  Stewart gulps as the last piece of both women’s clothing hits the floor. ”Whoa, she went full Skinemax on us.”

 

Greer doesn’t smile or grimace. “Perhaps we should try _less_  stimuli.”

 

“Well, actually—“ The women distract him again so he turns the computer screen away so he can focus on the older man. “Arousal is a good medium for a positive response to the program. It gets all those neurons and oxytocin going, you know?”

 

“Very well,” Greer says before he leaves the room.

 

The moaning gets louder, and Stewart’s face scrunches up in… he’s not entirely sure, but he doubts anyone would mind if he took his break early. Maybe his lunch. Or a nap, depending on the women’s stamina. //

 

}

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim4163.log  **

 

 

The closest Shaw has ever come to cuddling was on the trunk of that cab with Reese, so when she instinctively curls around the expanse of Root’s back, she blames it on the cold and the fact they kicked half of the covers off the bed in their… tumbling.

 

Her lips feel dry and she tries to lick them, pauses when she feels how swollen they still are; the taste is fading and she brushes her nose against Root’s shoulder blade, bites the curvature of the skin wrapped around bone and cartilage, hoping to get some of it back.

 

Root moans in her sleep, scoots backwards until there’s barely any part of them not touching each other, and Shaw’s decidedly not cold any longer. Root hums, the vibration against Shaw’s chest makes her breath catch; she knows Root is awake now.

 

Shaw’s hand that was wrapped around Root’s waist moves down, Root providing guidance that Shaw definitely doesn’t need but doesn’t resist; another time, another place, she would.

 

(She has, and she will again.)

 

It’s softer than before, Root’s moans are hazy from sleep, Shaw’s movements are languid and lack the usual… rush and drive.

 

Root’s fingernails dig into the back of Shaw’s hand when it’s over, the crescent wounds mixing in with the cuts and bruises from her escape. Root turns to face Shaw, and Shaw isn’t sure when attraction became something different, something more. There was always something there, even when Shaw wanted Root as far away from her as possible, or at the very least _unconscious_ , but this—

 

She focuses on the tip of Root’s nose, the shadow of her cheekbone, the stubborn strand of hair that keeps falling on Root’s face no matter how many times they move it out of the way.

 

“We’ll have almost matching scars, you know?” Root asks, pointing to Shaw’s ear.

 

“I’m pretty sure I can find others,” Shaw challenges. “Or create them,” she adds with a smile.

 

Root’s eyes dip towards Shaw’s lips, her hand cradling the back of Shaw’s neck until Shaw exhales sharply.

 

“Oh god, I’m sorry,”  the words are out of Root’s mouth as she realizes her palm is pressing against the bandage. She tries to pull it back, but Shaw’s hands reach for her wrist and grip it tightly. “You said it hurts,” Root points out. “And not the good kind of pain.”

 

“‘Since you cut the chip out, it’s only bad when I touch it,” Shaw replies.

 

“And when I touch it?” Root asks, biting her lower lip.

 

Shaw nods. “It’s the good kind of pain.”

 

Root doesn’t pull her hand back, instead she pushes Shaw on her back. “I can work with that.”

 

“That’s what I was counting on.”

 

 

**

 

 

{

 

        // Music blasts into Stewart’s ears, and he dozes through this part of the simulation. He has been through this enough times to know he has at least four hours before he needs to introduce any stimuli— well, _external_  stimuli.

 

He just hopes he doesn’t get written up for sleeping on the job. Or fired, which he’s pretty sure means killed at this place. //

 

}

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim5289.log  **

 

Shaw takes the bat and swings it at the first agent, then knocks the second one out. When she hears the third set of footsteps, she glances up slowly. “ _Cole_!?”

 

“Hi there, partner,” he replies, and the smile is just like it used to be. She figures this is the part where normal people hurt, but she can’t feel anything except the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

 

“You died,” she points out calmly.

 

“That was pretty realistic, right?” He laughs. “But no, ISA just re-assigned me to a special project. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

 

 

**

 

 

“So, how’s life?” Cole asks as they eat a hot dog from a cart on 18th Ave. “Let me guess, married, with three kids and dog?”

 

Shaw rolls her eyes. “You got the dog part right. Well, sorta. He’s not mine, but— it’s a long story,” she offers.

 

“I’ve got time. Except not really, because I kinda did just defect from the world’s most powerful organization, so… maybe we can talk while you take me to a safe place? I’ve seen Samaritan’s source code; I could help you defeat it.”

 

Shaw pauses and frowns, the ketchup spilling from the hotdog onto her t-shirt like fresh blood and the flashes start.

 

“Shaw? Shaw!” Cole’s voice sounds distant. “Come on, tell me where, I’ll take you there, to your friends.”

 

“Bear,” she groans as the skyline above her swirls and swirls. “That’s the dog’s name.”

 

Cole nods. “I’ll get you to Bear.”

 

She shakes her head. “Too damn risky. We need to get out of town.”

 

“Root, she’s waiting for you,” Cole says, but his voice has a distinct British accent all of a sudden, his face unrecognizable.

 

She shoves her knife into his artery; people panic around them.

 

NYPD shoots her before Cole’s blood soaks through her clothes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** ## POSIX syntax ## **

** command-name > sim7396.log **

 

 

{

 

        // “Where are we on Ms. Shaw’s progress?” Greer asks.

 

“Great,” Stewart replies. “Well… if you consider the fact she’s doing exactly the opposite of what we set out to do to be great.”

 

Lambert sighs. “She’s still resisting the simulation?”

 

“It’s like her subconscious is… learning.” //

 

}

 

 


	2. 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marks on her skin and the tightness of scar tissue don’t bother her; what she hates the most are the scars Samaritan left on her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post 5x09. Spoilers for everything leading up to and including that.

* * *

 

 

Shaw is once again in a dreamless sleep when she jerks herself awake, her blood turning cold when she sees Greer’s face staring back at her, the bitter taste of adrenaline already in the back of her throat.

 

“No!” She screams and scrambles for the gun she keeps under her pillow, except this isn’t her pillow and this isn’t her bed.

 

The nausea hits so fast, Shaw barely has time to make it to the trashcan next to the nightstand. She doesn’t remember such a visceral reaction to anything in her life, and she doesn’t remember the last time she ate, so she’s just dry-heaving over the trash can, her body admitting defeat that she hasn’t agreed to.

 

“Ms. Shaw,” Greer says. He is holding out a sandwich bag like he did so many times before, and the sound of boots running barely register until Root’s face appear and there is concern and fear there that Shaw is used to seeing, just not to this extent.

 

“You’re here… you’re not there anymore,” Root says as she sits on the edge of the mattress. Her hand goes from Shaw’s shoulder to down to Shaw’s elbow, cradling it.

 

Shaw’s nerve endings fire up in a storm, and she’s caught by it like the dingy boat she took from the island. She closes her eyes when she remembers the boat wasn’t real, the island wasn’t real, but her skin still reacts as if it hasn’t been touched by anything except needles and latex gloves in forever.

 

It’s Bear that snaps her out of it, when he jumps on the bed and curls around her, nudging her hand with his snout. She opens her eyes and Greer is back at the doorway, except it’s not Greer. It’s Finch, and he’s looking at her with a mixture of fear, wonder, and sorrow. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what happened, I thought you-- I thought you were someone else.”

 

“The apologies are mine, Ms. Shaw. I shouldn’t have woken you up,” he offers. “Goodnight, Ms. Groves. Goodnight, Ms. Shaw,” he adds, scurrying out of the hideout in discomfort. Bear licks Shaw’s hand two more times before he takes off after Finch.

  


*

  


Her heart rate slowly returns to normal, and Root doesn’t move or say anything. In fact, she’s kept her distance since the park, giving Shaw room to recoup, but also always in the periphery, ready for whatever Shaw throws her way. It’s not that Shaw’s taken any of the words back, but it’s still all too fresh in her mind.

 

It took Shaw days to agree to return to the subway, and she did so mostly because no safe house was actually safe; she finally sedated herself, asked the others to take her there, still unsure of what was real and what wasn’t. She woke up hours later, on a bed she didn’t recognize, in what she was sure was a storage room last time she had been there.

 

Apart from the strange decor, Shaw admits the dim lighting and… warmer feel of the room isn’t what she would ever look for consciously, but it’s such a contrast to the hospital room that it grounds her.

 

“Root?” Shaw asks, voice breaking. “How do I know this is real?”

 

Root’s hand touches Shaw’s cheekbone softly, her index finger calloused from pulling triggers, long slender fingers that are warm to the touch and it’s different from the prison of her corrupted mind. There’s a softness and urgency in Root’s touch that Shaw’s subconscious couldn’t ever recreate.

 

Reality is still hazy at points, her memory of the past few months are like a redacted mission brief, thick black lines hiding the truth, but she trusts this moment like she’s never trusted anything other than the precision of a scope with a laser sight.

 

Root is sitting on the small rug with a laptop when Shaw falls asleep again.

  


*

  


There are more non-Root memories now, of her captors and the procedures, being moved to different facilities that all looked the same from the inside. Shaw’s been sleeping on and off for days, though she can’t quite tells how _many_ days; she still can’t tell time all that well. Reese told her how long she was gone several times, but her brain shifts from perceiving it as just days to several years.

 

(She also gets flashes of them, bloody and battered, along with faint memories of lives she’ll never live.)

 

Time, ethereal and immeasurable to her, passes mostly with no sign of the rest of the team. There’s mostly Root and her, taking turns waiting for the payphone to ring, which it does, three or four times a week; they also take turns sleeping on the purple bed-- Root’s bed.

 

She wakes up and Root is not in the makeshift bedroom; she finds her in the train car, sleeping on one of the seats, snoring softly. Not wanting to disturb Root (or the Machine), Shaw turns to leave when Root decides to stir.

 

“Hi,” she says, looking really pleased for someone sleeping on a hard seat.

 

“Hey,” Shaw replies awkwardly. Unsure of what to say next, she opts for the safe route. “Where’s Finch and Reese?”

 

Root shrugs but she doesn’t fool Shaw for one second. “Reese is tracking down our number, and Finch is handling... a guest at the safe house.” She stretches, on the seat still, long limbs looking more graceful than Shaw could ever strive for. Root cracks her neck, long column of her throat exposed and pristine, and-- Shaw stares a bit longer than she intends to, pieces of virtual and real memories flooding back, mixing in an unsettling but not completely unwelcome way.

 

Some of the most vivid artificial memories were of Root’s neck and-- everything, really. Shaw doesn’t think there’s a single inch of Root she didn’t find solace in at some point, and those are some of the few memories that don’t make the anger boil over.

 

“Yeah, you should, uh… get some sleep on the bed, I’ll keep an eye on things here,” Shaw offers. She kicks herself for it, expecting Root to throw some innuendo her way, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Root just squeezes past her, present but not pushy.

 

She’s alone with her own confusion and the reborn Machine, returned to an infancy of sorts, held together with duct tape and an improvised cooling system. They still trust her to be near the Machine, to be near _them_ , and that’s the part that is the hardest to comprehend, especially in the moments when she doesn’t trust herself.

 

The marks on her skin and the tightness of scar tissue don’t bother her; what she hates the most are the scars Samaritan left on her mind.

 

With her diagnosis, she has come to rely on reason the most. Logical reasoning over gut feelings, pragmatism over interpersonal feelings. But her brain is misfiring, and she can’t rely on it like she used to.

 

She lets her senses take over when it gets bad; cold water on her skin, fingertips against her skin, the smell of Bear’s fur, the humming sound of the servers around them. It’s not foolproof, but Samaritan had never gotten those details quite right.

  


**

  


Reese drops off a bagful of takeout, and Shaw’s mouth waters. She hasn’t seen him as much, but he still makes it a point to stop by a couple of times a week.

 

Food was tough for her, during her captivity and after. Her digestive system had become unaccustomed to real world food, but her appetite didn’t care from the moment she stepped out of that prison. Initially, she was only been able to keep half of the food down at first; it’s improved now, though she still has to pace herself more than she wants to.

 

“Take it easy with this,” Reese warns her. Part of her resents the over-protectiveness even if she understands it, and she just nods as she reaches for the first styrofoam container. He smirks at her eagerness; there’s a warm glance shared between him and Root that’s enough to remind Shaw so much happened while she was gone.

 

When dinner’s done, Reese is nowhere to be found, and Root is working at the keyboard with a box of chow mein perched between her stomach and the desk.

 

“Please tell me the shower down here is still functional,” Shaw says, because the smell and taste of the food is great right until it becomes too much, lingering on her skin and clothes until she can’t take it anymore.

 

Root smiles.

  


**

  


Shower is a nice way to describe the torn down subway restroom, but there’s running water, two toilets, a sink and a door that usually works, and it’s more than some of the facilities available in the Corps.

 

Shaw doesn’t mind the cold shower. She has flashes of her skin being scrubbed with iodine in the bright operating room, but she’s not there; she’s in a dark room with water coming out of a rusty pipe.

 

The creaky door opens, letting some of the station lighting enter the room. “I didn’t want to startle you,” Root says as she places some clothes and towel on the sink. She turns to go, and Shaw feels something inside her shift, but she forces herself to finish the shower until the smell of food is replaced with some pine-scented soap they keep down there.

 

“What gives?” Shaw asks when she re-enters the room with the all the purple, toweling off her hair. There’s an anger inside her that she’s been ignoring for days, so it’s pushing to the surface like magma pushing against the thin layer of Earth’s surface, looking for a way out. “No unwelcome come ons? No leering or smirking?”

 

Root is in the middle of changing into a tank top and striped pajama pants, and she tilts her head. “Did you want me to ask you if you needed me to wash your back?” Root’s tone isn’t the usual innuendo, it’s mostly probing to find out where Shaw’s boundaries lie now.

 

“No.” Shaw’s tone is petulant, barely managing to contain the _duh_. She wants-- she’s not sure what she wants, and she knows that’s unfair to Root. She also feels that maybe Root’s brain might be working properly for the first time in her life, and realizing that bringing Shaw back was a mistake.

 

(She wants reassurance, wants Root to _want_ to wash her back, to see something other than the unspoken feelings that are plain on Root’s face every time she glances at Shaw, wants to have it replaced with desire and the other, safer, emotions.)

 

“You just seem less… expressive than before,” Shaw replies. “I don’t need the kid gloves, alright? And if you guys still don’t trust me, I wish you’d just say it, instead of Reese and Finch going out of their way to be anywhere but here, and you… giving me the cold shoulder.”

 

Root laughs then, that silent laugh that’s nothing like laughter should be; she tilts her head backwards so she’s not making any eye contact and it drives Shaw nuts because she can’t see and she curses Root’s stupidly long body.

 

“You think…” Root starts to say, her voice filled with bitter amusement.

 

“Listen, I get it, okay? I wouldn’t trust myself either. But if that’s what you’re afraid of, then take me somewhere else because we don’t have time for this.”

 

Root shakes her head, glassy eyes finally glancing at Shaw again, threatening to spill. “You know what scares me?”

 

Shaw remembers the night at the park, playing fast and loose with guns pointed at themselves; she feels her throat tighten, and her abdomen turns cold in some spots. She’s not used to having something to lose other than herself.

 

“Do you have any idea how many nights I spent wondering where you were? What they were doing to you, whether you were even…” Root trails off, unable to say the words. “I also wondered what would happen when you came home, what we’d do, where we’d go. Every scenario, playing out in my brain, over and over. I’m sure it wasn’t like what they did to you, but I was stuck in my own simulations.”

 

Root doesn’t stop talking, like a dam that has finally broken. “And I realized I wouldn’t care,” she confesses. “That night, at the park, I didn’t care, Shaw.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about, Root?” Shaw demands, and there’s a different anger awakening in her chest.

 

“If you were some kind of trojan horse, a weapon for Samaritan… I wouldn’t care, as long as you were alive. As long as I got to see you again,” Root continues, and Shaw wants to--

 

She does the first thing that comes to mind: she grabs Root by the shoulders and shoves until Root’s back is flush with the nearest wall. Root doesn’t even flinch. “Knock the self-sacrificing act out, alright?”

 

“I don’t think I need to remind you of the Stock Exchange, do I?” Root spits out. “I’m not-- I’ve never sought death out, but I know my chances, Shaw.”

 

“Listen,” Shaw grits out. “I didn’t spend months at the hands of Samaritan to watch you--” The words won't come out as easily as they did in the simulations; in the first ones, she didn’t even realize they were stuck inside her, but later holding them in felt pointless. She said them that night, so she knows she can do it. “I am _not_ going to lose you.”

 

She might not be able to fully trust her brain yet, but Shaw’s instincts are still mostly intact, and she crashes her lips against Root’s. It’s not soft or a declaration, it’s kerosene into a campfire, a dare.

 

Root doesn’t respond at first, and Shaw doesn’t know what to do with that; Root has always eagerly returned whatever Shaw gave, tenfold and without pause, both in the real world and in the virtual one, so Shaw pulls back, face full of concern.

 

When she glances at Root, she expects to find regret and maybe disgust; she’s not prepared for the way Root’s eyes are lit up. Root’s chest heaves as she finally lets out the breath she’s been holding as she stood in Shaw’s arms, motionless. Root moves now, wraps her fist in Shaw’s top until their torsos are flush and their lips are pressed together again.

 

It’s the point of no return, the promise they made to each other before that elevator is fulfilled.

 

(It’s one of many points of no return for Shaw, starting with the moment _Veronica Sinclair_ opened that hotel door.)

  
  


**

  


Shaw wakes up from a dreamless sleep again, a memory from way back when threatening to resurface, but there are no flashes; the only noise is Root’s soft snoring against Shaw’s ribs and the steady hum of the Machine’s servers beyond the closed curtain.

 

It’s uncomfortable, the bed isn’t big enough and Root is all limbs, taking up far more room than Shaw thinks it’s necessary; Shaw’s not used to sleeping with another body pressed against hers. It’s not ideal, but she welcomes the feeling of discomfort, of responding to external stimuli as opposed to ones created by her mind.

 

She’s not sure how much of her memories in captivity are her own, but she remembers most of the ones that involved Root.

 

Root, who had had tried to torture Shaw when they met, became Shaw’s solace during the months of psychological warfare at the hands of Samaritan; it had to be the world’s most twisted irony.

 

Shaw doesn’t feel in control yet, in Root’s room and the damp stale air that seems to be constant in their hideout. But she knows now she’s not broken; her brain never did crack, it just temporarily reorganized, reprioritized and retasked whatever it could to keep her from keeping her friends safe.

 

She feels more and more like herself each day, and the uneasiness will fade to white noise with time, and she wonders if someday she might find Root’s touch stifling again, if the weight on her chest will be too much, and Shaw doesn’t know those answers. For now, she focuses on the way Root’s hair brushes against her collarbone, fingertips pressed against her stomach.

 

Maybe one day she’ll fight this again, but for now she’s tired of fighting.

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter will pretty much be an epilogue. I hope to post it shortly. 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
